


The Astronaut

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2019-01-19 21:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12418641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Nymphadora Tonks and the Order of the Phoenix.





	1. The Girl with the Pink Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Sole Author's Note:** Rowling is the author of Harry Potter, and I am just playing around with the characters. I am American, so my Briticisms are limited to what didn't annoy me during the spell-check. Also, all definitions are from dictionary dot com; they will be cited individually as well.

This is a story I began back in '05, and I would like to thank all of the people who have reviewed it in all of its incarnations, and I would like to thank all of the people who have influenced bits and pieces of this. I believe that this is the final version. There will be 30 chapters in all.

 

\--

 

The Girl with the Pink Hair was no stranger to strange looks; she did, after all, elicit them almost everywhere she went. It was a price she was willing to pay, and this day was shaping up to be no different.

This day, her particular look included ripped fishnets, a plaid skirt, and a clip-on eyebrow ring. She felt several people stare at her as she ambled along the busy street, as she stopped every once in a while to check out the displays in the shop windows, pressing her face up against the glass like an excited child at Christmas.

"I suppose yeh think yeh look tough," the man at the newsstand said when she stopped to buy a few magazines and a paper. The Girl with the Pink Hair stopped by every morning, and he had been the one to christen her. It wasn't exactly a misnomer, but her hair wasn't always pink; the day before, she had been a strawberry blonde. This particular day, her hair was short and spiky and electric blue. Her outfits seemed to change as often as her hair, and if it were not for the fact that her heart-shaped face was always the same, she'd be unrecognizable.

"Not particularly, no," she replied with a cheeky grin. "Why, Alfie, do you?"

Her eyes twinkled playfully, and Alfie could have sworn they were a different color than they had been just yesterday... but her hairstyle must have been playing tricks on him.

"Frankly, miss," he said, "no matter how yeh dress, yer always gonna look like yeh wouldn't harm a fly."

"I _wouldn't_ harm a fly," The Girl with the Pink Hair said, smirking over the top of the paper she had opened in front of her, "but a beetle? I hate those things."

"Yer spunky, miss."

The Girl with the Pink Hair laughed. "You make me sound like a bad case of fungus. _Spunk_ , isn't that what that is?"

"Yer growing on me, if that's what yeh mean. Yeh don't mind I call yeh 'Pink Hair,' do yeh?"

"Oh, no. I've certainly been called much worse." She wasn't looking at him anymore, and instead was frowning at the paper. With a grunt, she crumpled it up and tossed it into the bin next to the stand, even though she couldn't have had time to read it all.

Alfie paused, and then, before he could talk himself out of it, he asked what he'd been wondering since the first day he'd met her. "Where do yeh go, dressed like that, every day, miss?" He had learned not to ask about the papers she threw away; the only time the Girl had responded, she had said that she just really hated trees. It had taken Alfie until long after she was gone to realize that she had been joking. Probably.

The Girl with the Pink Hair shrugged and gave a small, girlish kind of smile. "I go where everyone goes every day," she said. "I go to work."


	2. Tree Hairs and Actively Being Haunted

Take a look at your arm.

If you're like most normal people, I would assume that you've never really looked at your arm before. I mean, you've probably looked at it at some point in time, but very rarely do people look at their arms with a purpose.

It's almost astonishing the way people can obsess over their bodies, the way people can spend hours in front of the mirror, agonizing about their supposed flaws - flaws that, if I may say so myself, no other rational person would ever probably notice because they're far too busy thinking about _their own_ flaws. It creates a vicious cycle, laboring under the belief that no one else is as self-involved as you are when that's hardly ever true.

For example, if someone points out one of your flaws - say you're a bit fat, and someone calls you out on it - it almost always hearkens back to the insulter, them, being insecure, and it has very, _very_ little to do with the insulted, you. But you will take it personally; they will take it personally; most people would take it personally, and that's why most people spend 75% of their lives wasting away in front of a looking glass.

So, with that in mind, take a look at your arm.

Arms are not regularly judged by society, not the way faces and legs and bums are, so I'm asking you to look at your arm as if you've never seen it before, to examine it as if was as important of a factor in you finding a mate as your nose shape. (Your nose is lovely, by the way.)

Look at the skin and pinch it together. Watch the way it creases to form mountains, the way your hairs stand on end like trees, and the way your tiny, tiny pores have turned into tiny, tiny mountain-holes.

Now imagine that you could change one pore, that you could cave in one mountain-hole, with just a simple thought. Imagine that you could change the color of just one hair in a fraction of a second.

It's kind of underwhelming, isn't it? You're looking at your tree hairs in whatever natural tree hair color spouts from your body and you're imagining that one of them, for some odd reason, is purple. What on earth does a purple little hair matter?

I don't expect you to understand. But Nymphadora Tonks spent many hours in her bedroom, staring at her arms, watching her mountain-holes vanish and reappear, watching individual hairs slurp back into her dermis and go... Well, she didn't know _where_ they went. But she could feel her muscles contract and change, and, as far as she knew, she couldn't produce nor destroy body mass, but she could _stretch_ it. Move it. Shift it. Tonks's bones were not the foundation of her body; Tonks's bones were as susceptible to her will as the tree hairs on her head, which she just so-happened to change almost daily.

"Tell me you're not going out in public like that."

Her mother, Andromeda, a stiff, formal woman who sometimes liked to spoil Tonks with what some people would deem simple signs of affection, was standing in her doorway and frowning.

Tonks was in her bedroom. The bedroom she had lived in as long as she could remember. The bedroom that, now that she was almost twenty-two, seemed almost embarrassing.

"I'm not going out in public like this." Tonks turned away from the mirror, to face her mother instead of her mother's reflection. She dropped her hands, which had just been playing with her hair, to her sides. "I'm going to work."

Her mother frowned, thought-lines appearing on her forehead. "Don't they have a dress code at your office?"

"They do," Tonks said, pulling out her wand and Charming her stuffed unicorn, which usually lived amongst the pillows, and making it prance around her bed. Now that she was of age, she liked to indulge in senseless uses of magic like this. "They do," she repeated, "but they hardly ever enforce it."

Her mother sniffed very loudly then, but said nothing else, as a sniff is a classy way of showing condescension without actually having to put effort into it. "Have breakfast at the very least."

"I can't, Mum, really." Tonks looked at her Chudley Cannons watch, the long hand with its Quaffle on the end, and the short hand with its Snitch, and she almost felt as if it were laughing at her, and not because the watch was Charmed to laugh at you when you were late. "I should've left ten minutes ago."

"And what kept you? Your hair?"

"I honestly don't know why it bothers you so much."

"It bothers me because you have a respectable job, and you dress like a ..."

"I'm waiting for you to finish that thought."

"Then you're going to be even later than you already are because I won't." Her mother smiled that rare smile that brought out the kindness of her eyes. "It's far too early for me to be literate."

"Articulate."

"That, too."

"I'll see you later, Mum."

"You're leaving terribly early." Andromeda craned her neck to look at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "Why don't you just pick a closer Apparation point, Nymphadora? Or Floo, for Merlin's sake!"

"Floo makes me ill. And I like to walk through town. Keeping up with the Muggles is important."

"Don't remind me. Your father insists that we go to the Indian place for our anniversary."

"That place is good."

"Yes, but then we always go out to watch a film and watching those big people always makes _me_ ill."

"So then go over to Gran's and watch the telly. Little people."

"Someday, Nymphadora, you're going to understand that in-laws are not particularly welcome guests at anniversary celebrations."

"Is that a subtle jab at my social life?"

"Subtle?"

"Look who's suddenly good with language! Look, Mum, seriously, I've got to leave. Promise me you won't double up on the wards again."

What had been a playful conversation, and, quite frankly, the nicest one in a long time between Tonks and her mother, suddenly took a downcast turn. That light that Tonks yearned to see in her mother's eyes, that flicker of something that she tried so hard to evoke, vanished. Her mother looked sadder and older than ever.

Tonks searched for something to say, but words escaped her. She sighed and scratched at her neck, awkwardly. Andromeda sighed and ran a hand through her black, greying hair. Then she resolutely walked over to her daughter and gave her a hug.

"I'll see you later," she said to Tonks's ear.


	3. The Insubordinate Subordinate

Bosses, by nature, are nasty creatures, and if you've never seen one in its natural habitat, then you are very, very lucky, and most likely a child.

Tonks was neither.

Tonks was going to be twenty-two in August, and she had been working as an Auror for almost a year. Because she was but a cog in the machine known as The Ministry of Magic, Tonks had several bosses and several people who were higher up than she was. Tonks supposed that, in some abstract way, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, was her boss, but he had never even spoken to her, and she had seen him just once, while he met with all the Aurors. That had been following the hysteria at the Quidditch World Cup, and Tonks had been so embarrassed about the whole thing that she'd kept her eyes firmly on the ground while men who were stationed well above her gave their reports.

Closer to Tonks was the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement department, Amelia Bones. Tonks didn't know Bones very well, either, but she personally thought that she was much more competent – and therefore, intimidating – than Fudge, and secretly idolized her.

She had only met Amelia Bones once, on the first day of her Auror training. She had been running late, and rushing to get into the lift. The Ministry of Magic was a busy, bustling place, and Tonks, who at the time was still concerned with the dress code, maneuvered through the crowd while finagling into her work cloak. Truth be told, Tonks could barely finagle when standing still, and so she left a trail of disaster in her wake.

She elbowed a witch in the eye; she tripped a wizard who had been carrying a stack of papers he had just spent the last eight months organizing; and she ended up knocking over a vampire who sneezed blue right into her face.

"I think it's getting better," he said. "Yesterday it was pink."

She turned away from him and tumbled into the lift that had fortunately just opened its doors.

"Level?"

Tonks, who was on her knees, looked up into the kind, weathered face of a witch she somewhat recognized. Realizing that she was on the floor, out of breath, and half-stuck in a cloak, she pushed herself up and quickly tried to gain composure. "Er, the second."

"Well, then," the witch said brusquely, "off we go."

The two seconds Tonks spent in the lift with Amelia Bones were simultaneously the most awkward and most wonderful two seconds of her life. They got off at the same floor, and Bones turned to her as they exited. "I suppose you're one of the Auror recruits?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"Well, then you'd better not dally. You're already late."

Tonks had wished that she could be so calm and collected, that she could somehow demand that much deference. It was that instance with Bones that convinced Tonks that she really, truly did want to be an Auror.

And as an Auror, Tonks had another boss: the Head of her department, Rufus Scrimgeour. Scrimgeour was a leonine man with a tough gritty way, but for some reason Tonks wasn't very intimidated by him.

"You're late, Tonks."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," Tonks said, plopping into the seat she usually occupied between Dawlish and Shacklebolt. Both of the men were flanking Scrimgeour where he stood at the front, going over some papers in his hand. Scrimgeour liked expanding the broom cupboard into a meeting room for special times – like when Fudge had dropped by – and he had started to do it all the more regularly.

"I don't need to hear your excuse." Scrimgeour frowned at Tonks over the top of his spectacles. "I just hope you got your reports done."

"Aye," Tonks said, pulling the shrunken packet out of her pocket, tapping it with her wand to enlarge it. "They're all done and accounted for. And, I know you said you didn't want to hear my excuse, but I was doing research."

"Research, hmmm?" Scrimgeour grunted, reaching over and taking the paperwork.

"Yep, I was reading the Muggle news, seeing if anything suspicious had been reported. I know that we tend to get things ahead of them, but it's always good to keep your ears open, eh?"

Shacklebolt frowned and shuffled the pages he was holding. "What the hell are you talking about, Tonks?"

Tonks flushed. Shacklebolt was probably the second-in-command following Scrimgeour, and he was very imposing, and  _large,_ and he had the tendency to make Tonks feel like she was only two inches tall.

"Nothing, I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying –"

"It sounds like you're still saying something," Dawlish commented, and everyone in the room laughed. Tonks felt herself grow redder. She slid down a bit in her chair.

"I understand the desire to see what's going on with the Muggles," Scrimgeour said, rather matter-of-factly, "but at the moment, there's absolutely nothing going on with them that we wouldn't know about. Dawlish, Shacklebolt, if you two would be seated. Ah, yes. As I was saying, I had a meeting this morning with Fudge, and we talked about all the horrible things that have happened this last year, what with the Dark Mark appearing at the World Cup, and that boy dying in the Twiwizard Tournament, and things... Well, as I'm sure you've heard, Dumbledore and Harry Potter are both claiming that this means that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named has returned."

This came as a surprise to no one in the room, but Tonks had only heard this in mutterings and not addressed so directly.

"Moody is also of this opinion, and it is for that reason that we have refused to rescind his resignation."

"What do you mean?" Tonks blurted out before she could help herself. No one else seemed to mind.

"We always said," Proudfoot piped up, "that Moody's resignation was nothing more than a piece of paper, and that he was always welcome to re-join us, and, hell, he most likely would!"

"It's just for the moment," Scrimgeour said calmly, running his fingers through his impressive beard. "The Ministry does not wish at present to align itself with anyone who sides with Dumbledore."

"Is the Ministry  _against_ Dumbledore?" Tonks asked, shocked. She had always been of the impression that her former Headmaster was little less than infallible.

"Absolutely not. Fudge, however, wants to examine all the evidence before sending the community up in pandemonium, and I have to say, I agree. The last thing we want to do is frighten anyone, especially when we're not entirely sure."

"What would they gain by lying, though?" Savage asked.

"Fudge believes that Dumbledore's motivations are political. Potter, on the other hand, seems to be a fairly troubled young man; I'm sure you all read the Rita Skeeter articles."

Tonks's head was spinning. "I knew Cedric," she said without even thinking. "I went to school with him. What about the investigation into his death? Surely that's the least bit suspicious?"

"I'm  _not_ discounting anything," Scrimgeour said, slamming his hand down on the table before him, sending papers onto the floor and knocking over his coffee. "I've been an Auror my whole damn life, and I know that the number one thing we must do is keep all of our options open. Cedric Diggory's death was obviously a tragic accident – something that is not at all foreign when it comes to the Twiwizard Tournament, as I'm sure you all know.

"But that doesn't mean that You-Know-Who was involved, just as it doesn't mean that he  _wasn't_ involved. At the moment, we don't really know  _anything._ Dumbledore, of course, set up the Twiwizard Tournament in the first place, even after the school governors advised him not to. He personally went against the advice of seventeen other witches and wizards who had nothing but the best interests of Hogwarts at heart –"

"How is this relevant?" Shacklebolt, who had been sitting quietly and thoughtfully beside Tonks, finally spoke up. His booming voice reverberated around the room and sunk into Tonks's bones.

"The relevancy, Kingsley," Scrimgeour said, adjusting his glasses, "is that Dumbledore has the habit of doing whatever the hell he wants and getting away with it. Not that I blame him; if I was believed to be the greatest wizard of this age, I probably would, too. But is this You-Know-Who business meant to distract from his poor decision-making? I honestly don't know."

A deafening silence filled the room. Everyone sat lost in their own thoughts. Scrimgeour's detractive comments against Dumbledore were almost sacrilegious. He seemed to realize this.

"I'm not trying to attack Dumbledore. I'm trying to examine this whole issue from every single angle. And that is why I agree with Fudge that the best option for the Ministry is complete and utter neutrality. I believe that is the mode that the Magical Law Enforcement Department should take, and I daresay Amelia Bones will side with me.

"It will do no one any good to run around screaming at the top of their lungs that You-Know-Who is back. The most logical option for us Aurors is to continue to solve the crimes that keep coming up to us and to keep putting the dangerous lunatics behind bars. Of course Knockturn Alley continues to be the cesspool of criminal activity that we need to fish from. And Shacklebolt is still leading the case on Sirius Black. The sooner you find that bastard, Kingsley, the sooner a lot of the community's mind will be put at ease."

Scrimgeour surveyed the room before him. "I'm done. You may go to your cubicles."

 


End file.
